


Exactly What It Says On the Tin

by Squidink



Category: Hulk Vs Wolverine, Marvel
Genre: M/M, PWP, Slash, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-02
Updated: 2009-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squidink/pseuds/Squidink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arkady Rossovich is not what you would call a careful or considerate lay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exactly What It Says On the Tin

**Author's Note:**

> See end notes for warnings and kinks.

“Red, don’t, just don’t, just don’t, ah _fuck_ —”

 

Rossovich wonders if Deadpool knows what he’s saying, and immediately revises it to wonder if he _ever_ knows what he’s saying.  Still, it’s sort of nice, in a deranged way, and that’s the only thing that stops him from strangling the idiot into perfect silence. Though he is tempted, sorely, when Deadpool manages to knee him in the sternum.  But Rossovich takes it in stride like the gentleman he is, cracking Wilson’s head against the wall once to daze him and twice more for catharsis.

 

Wilson’s head rolls on his neck like he’s made of rubber, but Omega Red can clearly see the grin stretching under his mask. _He’s a sick dog_ , Rossovich thinks, but that doesn’t stop him from grinding against that sweetly straining body.

 

It’s good, now.  It’s okay to let loose a little steam, when Wilson’s asking for it so nicely.  Rossovich reaches up, slips a palm around the curve of his skull, feels the warm wetness of blood pooling beneath the fabric.  Deadpool moans, high and helpless and happy, heels catching on the rough concrete wall.  This close he smells strongly of chemicals, sweat and disease and sex.  It is intoxicating, and so Rossovich squeezes his fingers to feel the bone give beneath his touch.  He presses his face into the warm soft place behind the bolt of Wilson’s jaw, inhaling sharply.

 

Deadpool is one of those indestructible constants in his life, like cold or hunger or long dead nights.  He cannot be destroyed, not really; only subdued, at best.  He is almost Wolverine, and almost is enough. 

 

Rossovich lets his tentacles slip free, coiling wet and tight around Wilson’s waist; his arm; his throat.  Deadpool is _unbreakable_.  What’s the harm, then, of drawing off a little of that endless energy, just little sips that are either unnoted or unchallenged; it doesn’t matter to Rossovich one way or another, really.  Nothing Deadpool says at this point matters.

 

The contact sings through his blood, revitalizing and sizzling through every hidden artery.  Wilson convulses, once, reminding Rossovich abruptly of wind-up toys, all stuttering motion, shocked back to animated life.

 

“Aw, man, you know I don’t do the kinky stuff on the first date,” Wilson croaks, sliding his free hand shamelessly down his belly to rub his palm against his trapped erection.  His hips thrust into his own touch, and he lets out a tortured moan, even though he only has himself to blame for the tease.  His head lolls forward, forehead bumping against Rossovich’s, and his lips pressed to Rossovich’s cheekbone. The fabric of his mask is wet with spit. “Oh, please, oh, please, mister,” Wilson says, breath catching on the plea, then laughs.  His teeth click together.   “Pull out that Doc-Ock shit and let’s get this show on the road!”

 

“No,” Rossovich growls, pointlessly. Effortless, he pushes Deadpool away, scraping Wilson’s back across the wall, catching Wilson’s hands in his own and slamming them out to either side.  Deadpool hisses through his teeth, ridiculous and frustrated.  Rossovich finds himself strangely charmed. “We do this my way, Wilson, or not at all.”

 

“What, your way? Your way is boring. Your way has no bump’n’grind. I swear I will turn this fine piece of ass around and we will both go home without embarrassing stains. And you can just explain _that_ to the drycleaner yourself.”

 

Rossovich smiles, slides the very tip of tentacle along Wilson’s clavicle, toying with the edge of the mask; he knows what Deadpool likes – mask half up (never off), skin on skin if he can manage it – and it gives Rossovich no end of satisfaction to deny him it.  The tentacle slithers up, cupping his chin. “Do you want to stop?”

 

Wilson pauses, shivers. He leans forward in a failed attempt to either rub his cheek on Rossovich’s exploratory appendage or bite it, and both are appealing in their own way. “No.  C’mon, Red, buddy, pal,” Deadpool wheezes, “lemme just…”

 

Careful to avoid anything but the barest touch, Rossovich tugs up the lip of the mask, drawing it up to delicately rest on the bridge of Deadpool’s nose. Wilson’s tilts his head back prettily to follow the motion, mouth ajar and rapid breaths panting warm against Rossovich’s face.  His tongue flicks out, childish.

 

Wilson has some blood and spittle pooled at the corner of his lip.  He likely bit his tongue at some point.  It is endlessly tantalizing.  Rossovich releases one of Deadpool’s arms to reach out and swipe it away with his thumb, licking it off the digit with a pleased hum.  He then rocks back his heels, coy, as Wilson stares at him, dumbstruck.  “Just what?”

 

“You fucking _tease_.”

 

Wilson twists in his grip, swinging a leg up toward Rossovich’s head in what would have been a devastating kick if Rossovich hadn’t slammed the pest senseless against the wall before he was even halfway there.  Rossovich likes the fight, play or otherwise. Though… perhaps Wilson meant it, really intended to knock Rossovich down and make his getaway. And that thought makes it all even better. “Try harder,” Rossovich reprimands, and slips a tentacle down to the front of Wilson’s pants, unbuckling his belt, tugging down his trousers just enough to torment, then just a little more.

 

“Ain’t it happy-fun-time yet?” Deadpool asks brightly, unaffected by yet another blow to the skull, and angles his hips as best he can, held up against the wall as he is. “Are we getting to it or what? You know I love the foreplay, but I’ve got things to do, people to see, sniktbubs to bother and andand _and_!” He groans with theatric appreciation as his erection springs free, red and flushed purple at the tip, as scarred and uneven as the rest of him.  Rossovich seizes Wilson’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, holding him in place even as he wraps one thick tentacle several times around his penis.  Rather than stroking, Rossovich rolls his tentacle luxuriously, squeezing up and down the shaft, pointed tip teasing at the head.  “Oh shit,” Wilson says, voice unnaturally thin.

 

There is a wonderful moment of silence, punctuated only by Deadpool’s frantic breathing.  His lips tremble when Rossovich lets the sharp tip slide – just a little! – into his urethral opening.  And a little more, just because.  Deadpool cries out at that, sharp and loud as any beaten cur. 

 

Wilson's mouth makes a crooked shape, a slanting line that suggests a smile even when it's not.  He’s shaking. “Fudge and crackers, mister, naughty puppet show!”

 

“This has nothing to do with puppets,” Rossovich replies, wishing that, for once, Deadpool could remain focused.

 

“It could. Anything can be improved with the addition of puppets. C-crimoney. You pervert— you just like seeing me get all hot and bothered,” Deadpool pants, sing-song and sly, arching up, feet kicking for the leverage to wrest back control even though they both know he won’t get it. “Oh, no, help me, I need an _adult_ —”

 

“Shut up, Wilson,” Rossovich growls, and squeezes just to remind him who exactly is in control right now.

 

Deadpool laughs breathlessly, and curves his back in a way no living human should be able to. “Hey. Hnn! Hey, Red, you’re touching my no-no place. Want me to call ya daddy?” He only laughs harder as Rossovich rolls his eyes. “I can squeal real nice. I bet you get off on that kind of stuff, you naughty boy.  Tell me I’m the prettiest pri—shwissh?” Fortunately, the impromptu gag of a tentacle, wrapped firmly around Wilson’s head and anchoring his jaw, is enough to halt the stream of consciousness.  Omega Red smiles in satisfaction—

 

And shudders, as Wilson’s warm, wet tongue slides along the metal, teasing and wanting and testing and the sensation shooting straight to Rossovich’s groin.  His neglected cock twitches, dribbling wetly, and he bucks up, rubbing it against Deadpool’s thigh.  Wilson laughs, snide, as the tentacle lets go its tight hold, instead tracing the outline of his jaw, his lips, the strange landscape of his skin.  “Tastes like batteries,” Wilson tells him, conversational. He sticks out his tongue, roughly laps at it like a dog or a whore, and Rossovich is amused to realize it is as textured as the rest of him.  “This is kind of sick, really, I mean, it goes _into_ your arm and all— hey!”

 

Wilson drops straight down, landing artlessly akimbo, his nose striking hard against Rossovich’s knee, hard enough to start bleeding.  He makes a weird, whining sound in the bottom of his throat, sitting up to cup his new hurt and looking up at Rossovich accusingly.  He is wary, that much is obvious, legs tense and ready to spring.  His uncertainty is arousing enough on its own.

 

Rossovich smiles, benevolent, and works his dick free, stroking it lightly between his first three fingers.  He pushes his hips forward lazily, pressing his cock against Wilson’s cheek.  It makes an amusingly tacky smacking sound. “Well?” Rossovich asks, all smug expectation.

 

Wilson does not disappoint.  He scoots forward on his knees, gracing Rossovich with one last dark look before wrapping his lips around his sex, warm and satisfying and sinking straight to the base.  He slides his tongue extravagantly around the shaft, hollows his cheeks, rubs his nose in Rossovich’s pubic hair, shameless like an animal.  The back of his throat flutters around the sensitive head.  Rossovich moans, lets his stance widen, giving Wilson ample room.  

 

Drooling at the taste, Wilson works his mouth back off, sucking hard the whole way, then slides smoothly back down, obviously well practiced.  Rossovich’s hips stutter, his abs flex, at every spike of sensation. “Harder, Wilson.”  He lets his hands drop, one pressed in benediction to the top of Wilson’s head, one resting easy on his shoulder. “Yes, just like that,” he says, encouragingly. 

 

His kindness earns him the hard edge of Wilson’s teeth, and he would so love to cuff him, but…. “Careful,” is all he says, irritated.

 

Wilson mutters around his mouthful, and then sits back on his heels, letting Rossovich’s dick slip free with an obscene pop.   He wipes the back of his hand across his lips, grimacing.  “Are you gonna let me work or are you gonna nitpick?”

 

Rossovich’s irritation spikes into true rage.  He snarls, grabs Deadpool by the jaw, levering open his mouth, and slams back in.   Wilson shouts in angry protest, hands coming up to clasp as Rossovich’s wrist, to push at his stomach.  There is another flash of teeth, and Rossovich squeezes his fingers menacingly. “Do it,” he spits. “Do it, and go back to Hospice.”

 

That is all it takes.  Wilson freezes, then relaxes abruptly, going back to his task as easily as if he never stopped.  If his pace is a bit more brisk, what of it?  Rossovich is only after one thing after all.  “Better,” he sighs, then laughs. “You do so well at this, Wilson.”  He begins to thrust, humming in satisfaction as Deadpool generously lets his jaw go loose, allowing Omega Red his fun.  With such open hospitality, Rossovich cannot help but take it further, grinding in hard, full on fucking his face.  Wilson groans, but doesn’t move, taking short, gasping breaths when he can, choking on dick.  If only he could be this accommodating all the time.  Maybe Rossovich will return the favor, later.  Or maybe not.  His thrusting becomes sloppy, dragging his dick across the ridged top of Deadpool’s mouth, bulging out the side of his cheeks.  Imagines bending him over and fucking him, just like this, with only spit to ease his way.  Imagines the way he would fight, arching and kicking and thrashing and succumbing by inches.  The thought is so pleasant, and he is so close, he just can’t help himself.  He hunches forward, and, quite unexpectedly his hands are around Wilson’s neck and squeezing—

 

They freeze there, for a moment, for a handful of blissful seconds before Rossovich’s hold slackens and Deadpool slips free to land awkwardly half-crouched and half-slumped against the wall.  Wilson coughs, turns his head to spit up come on Rossovich’s boots while he is too winded to care. “What a jackass,” he croaks, rubbing his throat briefly before reaching down.  Rossovich is only somewhat surprised to see he is still hard.  In the spirit of reciprocation, he allows Wilson to rest his head against his leg, lets him gasp and jerk and moan as he jacks himself hard. “Oh, please, oh fuck, oh fuck, don’t stop, oh fuck,” Wilson breathes, so quiet.  Rossovich uses his knee to tilt him back, right under the chin, to prop him up against the wall, open mouthed and wanting.  His spent dick twitches at the sight.  He presses in harder with his knee.

 

Wilson gags, and comes. 

 

Rossovich grunts, satisfied, and braces his arm against the wall.   He feels warm, relaxed as a he ever is.  Perhaps even content.  Wilson is grumbling something inane somewhere at his feet, and Rossovich musingly considers kicking him for good measure when the babble suddenly cuts off, and Deadpool raises his hand in a jolly wave.

 

“Howdy, Logan! What’s up?”

 

Rossovich jerks away, stumbling back and pivoting around, his hand flying down to cover his flaccid penis.

 

Wolverine stands at the end of the hall, lips twisted in disgust and a cigar partway to his mouth.  His narrow eyes shift from the cheerfully disheveled Wilson and up to Rossovich, then back again.  He grunts, and turns to head back the way he came from, cigar still unlit.

 

Deadpool scrambles to his feet again, adjusting his mask back into place as he calls, “What? You can choke me too, if you want—”

 

Rossovich holds a hand to his face, rubbing at the hollows at the corner of each eye. “Wilson.”

 

“Yup?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: dub-con; choking kink; face-fucking; voyeurism; unloving sex; explicit sex.


End file.
